The Curious Case of Rodney P
by Pjazz
Summary: A Saki fanfic. A comedy of sex, drugs and a psychic parrot. The most dissolute man in the world suffers parental issues - from beyond the grave.


**THE CURIOUS CASE OF RODNEY P.**

**A Saki fanfic**

**By Pjazz**

**2008**

**NOTE**

Saki - HH Munro - was an Edwardian writer of macabrely funny short stories - or is it funnily macabre? I digress.

Like most English kids I first came across him in school, a blessed short sharp relief from Dickens' doorstep thick novels.

My fav stories are probably 'Tobermory', the gloriously un-PC 'The Unrest Cure' and 'The Holiday Task', which features an embryonic version of PG Wodehouse's Bobbie Wickham (in my opinion).

If you like Lemony Snickett then you'll surely like Saki.

What follows is a fanfic sorta in the Saki style. It contains adult themes.

**THE CURIOUS CASE OF RODNEY P.**

Rodney Patterson's mother died the same day the Sex Pistols released their debut single.

The two events were unrelated.

Rodney was 21 years of age and in his first year of Medical school. An only child he was completely devastated at the loss of his sole remaining parent. At the graveside he swore he would fulfil all his mothers' hopes and ambitions for him. He would remain teetotal, attend church regularly , finish his education and become a great surgeon just as she had always wished. He would find a fine wholesome wife and they would raise fine wholesome children.

And none of that came to pass.

For the day after the funeral the Will was read.

It was a large inheritance in the same way Mount Everest is a large pile of rock. Rodney's resolve began to crumble almost immediately. He got drunk for the first time in his life to celebrate his new billionaire status. He woke hungover in bed with a 16 year old hooker with a habit who had sworn blind she was a 19 year old model with prospects. Rodney didn't care. He told her to invite some friends round and they would do it all again. And again.

And so it went. The medical career fell by the wayside. Church? An irrelevence. The fine wholesome wife and family never materialised. Instead Rodney paid clandestine visits to Madame Fifi's, who ran a discreet establishment for discerning gentlemen in Battersea. The gaming tables and speakeasies of the world became familiar hunting grounds.

In the decades that followed Rodney's name became a byword for decadence. If it could be snorted it went up his nose. If it could be injected it coursed through his veins. If it could be smoked it filled his lungs. It was rumoured he had had three liver transplants before the age of 40; that he had his blood drained and cleansed of impurities at a secret Swiss clinic that had links back to Vlad the Impaler and more recently Rolling Stone Keith Richards. Rodney believed every day he wasn't wasted was a day wasted.

Then one day all that began to change.

Rodney woke in his Weybridge mansion at around noon, as was his wont. He breakfasted on lines and a half bottle of Cristal champagne. Some leftover oysters smelt funny even to his jaded palate and he threw them away. The doorbell sounded. He staggered off to answer it. Perhaps it was his dealer with fresh supplies.

Outside stood a slim brunette Rodney had never seen before.

"Yes?"

"Rodney, you are a bitter bitter disappointment to me, " the woman said in a voice uncannily like his mothers'.

"What? Ah, Do I know you?"

"Don't you recognise your own mother's voice when you hear it? Oh Rodney, what have you done with your life."

"Is this some kind of sick joke? My mother's been dead for 30 years. And she looked nothing like you."

"This is the body of a psychic," the woman explained in his mother's voice. "She was conducting a seance and I temporarily borrowed her corporeal form."

It turned out to be the worst afternoon of Rodney's life. The little details she knew about him confirmed it really was his mother, incredible as it seemed. Rodney broke down and wept at her feet, begging forgiveness for his dissolute life. He promised he would change and placated the woman who bore his mothers' spirit sufficiently that she finally left the house, declaring she would be back soon to see that he kept his word.

As soon as she had left Rodney picked up the phone and dialed a number a financial associate had once advised him to call if he ever encountered any business problems that required a drastic solution.

"Hello? Is this Luigi?"

"This is Luigi."

" I hear you sort problems out for people. Permanantly."

"Correct.For a price"

"I have a problem. It's My mother. I want her killed."

Luigi wasn't surprised or shocked at this request. Most of his business came from disaffected family members. Who was he to judge? And his name really was Luigi. Though he wasn't Italian. Luigi lived in Islington next door to an ex-cabinet minister. He liked cultivating bonsai trees, killing things and the music of Norah Jones.

"Very well. How would you like it done? I shoot, stab or garrotte. I can make it look like a robbery, a mugging or suicide. It is up to you."

"I don't care. I mean it's not like it's even murder. My mother's been dead for over 30 years."

Luigi frowned. Had he heard right? Surely not. A glitch in the line.

"The fee is £50,000. Paid direct to my Swiss bank account."

"Fine. No problem. How soon will you do it?"

"Within 48 hours of payment."

Luigi was true to his word. 48 hours later Rodney read a story in the newspaper about a clairvoyent who lived in Croydon. She had been shot and killed during a robbery. The police were appealing for witnesses.

And that was that for three weeks. Then came another knock on the door. A slim blonde this time in a cheap cagoule.

"Rodney," she said uncannily in his mother's exact voice, "how could you murder that poor girl? She is most upset in the next world. Shame on you. You are such a disappointment to me"

Once again Rodney wept and swore he would change his ways. He had panicked, he explained. Lost his head with the shock of it all. Things would be different from now on. Come back tomorrow and they could start planning his new future together, just like old times.

As soon as she left Rodney rang Luigi.

"Listen, it's me again. My mother's still alive and boy is she livid. You'll have to kill her all over again."

Luigi was tempted to hang up, but greed prevailed.

"Very well. The fee is now £60,000."

"Yes, yes. No problem. Just do it right this time."

48 hours later the newspapers reported the death of a psychic in Southwark. Burnt to death in a house fire. Police suspected the scented candles she used during her seances were to blame. The death wasn't condsidered suspicious, just an unfortunate accident.

This time Rodney's peaceful interlude lasted just five days. A knock on the door. A tubby brunette. As soon as she spoke with his mothers' voice Rodney ushered her inside the house. Then smashed her skull in with a club hammer. He buried the body under the rose garden.

24 hours later a tall black girl stood on the doorstep. She had an afro and a nose-ring. Rodney didn't even wait to invite her inside. As soon as she spoke with his mothers' voice he ran her through with a carving knife. Her body went under the parterre.

Now thoroughly spooked Rodney moved out of Weybridge to a penthouse flat in Mayfair. He bought the two floors directly below and installed a security team whose job it was to prevent anyone from getting near him. Any women who showed up claiming to be his mother were to be bundled in the back of a car, driven to the north of Scotland and dumped there. Rodney would have preferred to have had them all killed but Luigi was refusing to take his calls.

For six months he wasn't disturbed. Emboldened he decided to pay a visit to Madame Fifi's. He booked his favourite girl, Mona, who was every bit as depraved as he was, but far younger, slimmer and better looking.

Mona counted her fee and was changing into her schoolgirl outfit when she suddenly fainted. She revived almost immediately.

"Hey, you okay? You want some coke?" Rodney enquired "Finest columbian. Picks you right up"

"Rodney, you wicked wicked boy." came an all too familiar voice. "How could you, corrupting this poor girl. You truly are a bitter disappointment to me."

Rodney's ardour dwindled. He hastily covered himself with a sheet.

"Mother? You have got to be kidding me. How? Mona's not psychic."

"She has a latent talent she is unaware of."

"That's just great. Hello again, mother."

Once more Rodney's mother chastised him for the terrible excuse for a human being he had allowed himself to become. And once again Rodney swore to mend his ways.

"You're quite right, mother. And I will change. I promise. Turn around so that I can get dressed."

Once her back was turned Rodney picked up the bedside lamp and hit her repeatedly over the head. The screams and noise brought Madame Fifi to investigate.

"Is everything all right, Mr Patterson? Oh my God! What are doing?"

What Rodney was doing was scooping up the spilt blood and brains of his favourite whore.

"Shut up and help me wrap her in a sheet."

"I'm not helping you, you murdering bastard. You're going to prison."

"I'll pay you a million pounds if you help me dispose of the body."

It was really no contest. No contest at all.

"You get her head I'll grab the feet. I'll dismiss the other girls. We'll take her out the back way."

After that Rodney decided to take no chances. He left England and moved to the Carribean. He bought a private island and built a luxury villa, staffing it with servants who were all mutes. Offshore he hired a private navy to patrol the water with strict orders to blast any trespassers to smithereens. He brought in hookers from Cuba only if they agreed to be bound and gagged for the duration of their visit. "Sure thing, boss", they said. Or "Mmmm mmmm mmm," to be more precise.

A year passed. All was well. Then while he was snorting cocaine from a Cuban hooker's bare buttocks Rodney suffered a heart attack, exacerbated greatly by his mute staff being unable to summon help with any degree of lucidity. The doctor who finally arrived bore bad news.

"I'm sorry, Rodney, but you're going to need a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Something's popped in your brain. It's your own fault. I've warned you before about your lifestyle catching up with you."

"Don't you start. I get enough of that from my dead mother. Say - you're not psychic, are you?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

"Never mind. Just to be on the safe side put this gag on."

Rodney had a gold motorised wheelchair built and only left it to sleep and for the ocassional dip in the olympic size swimming pool. One morning he took lunch on the terrace overlooking the manicured gardens. A parrot landed on a nearby jacaranda tree. Rodney paid it no heed.

"Arrk! Rodney, you are a massive disappointment to me," it sqawked in his mothers' voice.

"A psychic parrot? You have just got to be joking, mother."

But it was indeed a psychic parrot. Immediately Rodney shut himself in the house. He ordered traps to be set and poison laid out. But the parrot didn't touch any of it. Rodney brought in vicious hawks to eat the parrot, but the hawks seemed curiously intimidated and flew off to a neighbouring island. The parrot tapped on Rodney's window at night. It sounded like morse code. Rodney had soundproofing installed. If he even thought about stepping outside the parrot would swoop down and begin telling him what a terrible son he was.

Finally Rodney could stand no more and decided to confront his mother.

"Listen, mother, this can't go on. What d'you want from me? It's too late for me to become a surgeon. Look how my hands tremble. And I can't have kids - wholesome or otherwise. Nothing works down there anymore. Face it, I'm redemption exempt."

"Arrk! Then you must give away your fortune, Rodney."

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Arrk! You must donate every penny to charity and worthwhile causes."

"And then you'll leave me alone? Go back to wherever it is dead people go?"

"Arrk! Correct."

Rodney pondered. He smiled. It was the smile of a cornered fox.

"Very well. I'll do it. I'll give away my fortune."

He summoned his lawyer and together they made up a contract donating all Rodney's fortune to charity and worthwhile causes. The parrot perched in an hibiscus bush watching intently as Rodney used a gold Mont Blanc pen to sign away his billions. The lawyer hurried off to take a powerboat to a bank on the mainland and the biggest commision of his life.

"Satisfied, Mother? All gone. Every last penny. Now it's your turn. Mother?"

The parrot said nothing.

"Mother? If you're still here speak to me."

The parrot said nothing, simply preened itself with its beak.

Rodney threw his head back and laughed.

"You dumb bitch! I signed away my fortune all right. With vanishing ink. By the time the lawyer reaches the bank my signature will be long gone."

Rodney upended a bottle of Cristal champagne and glugged it down in triumph.Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

".._.i swapped pens._.."

"What? What did you say?"

But the parrot said nothing.

"Mother? Are you still here? No. No way. Impossible. You couldn't have swapped pens."

But it was possible and Rodney knew it. He only used vintage gold Mont Blanc pens. He had several. They all looked alike. It was a foible of his. Could the damn parrot have switched them?

Surely not. But if so...

"Christ, my money!"

Rodney put the wheelchair in gear and propelled himself through the villa, past the swimming pool he seldom used, past the tennis court he never used, past all the exotic shrubbery down to the sandy beach and the long wooden jetty that stretched out into the ocean. The wheels made the sunbleached timbers creak. The boat with his lawyer onboard was just leaving.

"Hey! No! Stop. Come back. I've changed my mind. Wait! Dammit wait!"

But no one turned to see. No one heard his cries. Just as No one saw the wheelchair career wildly out of control off the end of the jetty, hang cartoon-like for a nano-second in midair, before plunging into the sea.

Rodney Patterson drowned in 20 feet of water.

In death he beacame the son his mother had aways wanted. When news of his astonishing genorosity followed swiftly with news of his - presumed accidental - demise reached the media glowing epitaphs filled the world's newspapers. Schools and hospitals on every continent were named after him. World leaders cancelled everything to be at his funeral, where solemn tearful eulogies were recited by people who had never met him. There was talk of petitioning the Vatican to make Rodney a saint. He won the Nobel Peace prize posthumously and Time magazine made him their Man of the Year. A film of his life was planned. Elton John was said to be composing a song.

And the parrot? The parrot lived a long and uneventful life not leaving the island once.

And was never heard to speak a single solitary word to anyone.

Ever.

**THE END**


End file.
